


The Promise of the Roses

by Telaryn



Category: Leverage
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Anger, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Gunshot Wounds, Hostage Situation, Kidnapping, Rescue, Revenge, Sacrifice, Secrets, Sexual Content, Team Dynamics, Torture, Vendettas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telaryn/pseuds/Telaryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Nate didn't survive his shooting on the ship's deck in The Maltese Falcon Job?  While the team struggles to put their lives back together, a figure from Eliot's past moves to bring Nate's hitter back into the fold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Promise of the Roses

  


The moment Nate fell was a snapshot in Eliot’s memory – one that refused to be forgotten or set aside. He’d turned back for one panicked moment after seeing the others safely into the helicopter, thinking somehow that he would do the impossible; that he would defy the odds and save them all. In that handful of seconds he’d seen Nate crumple to the ship’s deck, and his brain had automatically begun piecing together everything he’d missed from the chaos of the previous hour.

_Kadjic firing wildly as they sealed him into the bridge._

_Nate’s hand pressed to his abdomen…his slow, stiff walk as they made their way to the deck…_ He’d made sure to stay behind them too – Eliot had been so focused on getting everyone clear of the danger suddenly coming at them from all sides that he hadn’t bothered to question that either.

Nate had been shot.

Nate was down.

_And it was all Eliot’s fault._

Sophie was the only thing that kept him from charging back blindly into the fray as horrified realization washed over him. Her voice calling his name – her hand gripping his arm – reminded him that whatever else had happened, he still had his orders. He’d failed to protect Nate.

He couldn’t fail to do what Nate had demanded he do.

As Eliot turned to follow the others to freedom, memory of Sterling flashed into his mind. James Sterling, Interpol, standing on the ship’s deck waiting to take Nate into custody. The two of them weren’t friends anymore, but whatever else had gone down Eliot had to believe Sterling didn’t want to see Nate dead.

Weeks later, when the whole awful story finally spilled into their lives, Eliot vowed to never make the mistake of assuming Sterling’s motives ever again.  
*****************  
Eliot reached for her most mornings these days. Sophie had lost track of the number of times she’d woken up to the feel of his hands on her skin, his breath warm on her neck, his fingers already playing across her clit. He was a talented, perceptive lover – so much so that even on those mornings where sex with anyone was the last thing she was interested in, it took him no time at all to reduce her to a whimpering, pleading mess…begging him to fuck her.

The nightmares had been bad this time; she’d had to wake him up twice during the night because he was thrashing and calling out in his sleep. They’d always known sleep was a problem for Eliot, but until she’d started sharing his bed Sophie had never appreciated just how much the ghosts of his past tormented him.

_None more so now than the one that slept between them every night…_

His fingers slid further between her thighs, penetrating her easily. Sophie moaned, arching against his other arm encircling her waist. “Eliot, please…”

“So wet,” he murmured, hitching himself closer. His thumb brushed rhythmically against her clit as he fucked her with two fingers. “Want to feel you come, Sophie. Come for me.”

She was already hovering on the edge – it was easier to let go then to pretend she had any control over the situation. Warmth and pleasure filled her up, spilling everywhere as she writhed and gasped and pleaded with him to keep going… _right there…yes…please…oh God…_ The orgasm was huge this time, whiting out her vision as she stiffened in his arms. For several glorious moments she didn’t have to think, didn’t have to remember – all she had to do was feel, and all she felt was good.

He’d shifted around her before she’d even finished coming down, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of her hip to hold her where he wanted, while he used his other hand to guide himself up and inside her. Sophie moaned softly, pushing back against him as he stretched her open. “That’s my girl,” he whispered in her ear, kissing the side of her neck.

Her throat tightened over whatever response might have inadvertently slipped out as he rocked his hips into her again. _They’re just words._ She wasn’t his. She would never be his, any more than he could be hers. She saved him from his nightmares and his guilt, and he made it so she could get up every day and pretend she didn’t think about dying herself.

It was equal parts salvation and punishment when they came together like this. On the one hand it helped them forget everything that had happened. On the other, every touch, every press of flesh, every moan and sigh was a reminder of the one they’d lost – the one each of them wished they were sharing themselves with.

Sophie had asked him one night in a vindictive mood, fueled by too much Chablis, who he was really fucking when he thrust himself into her with such enthusiasm. Eliot had looked at her with such pain in his eyes that she’d apologized immediately – regretting that she’d said anything at all. It ended up being one of the only nights they slept apart since the day Maggie had called with the news of Nate’s death. Sophie had gone out of her way to make sure she never again said anything that risked pushing Eliot away.

She couldn’t imagine going on without him.  
******************  
_Some nights he was the hero. He re-wrote history in his dreams, charging the deck of the ship, fighting off the FBI and Interpol and forcing Sterling to let Nate go._ More often he was the failure – forced to stand helplessly by as Nate bled his life out onto the deck of the ship; his arm twisted up overhead by the cuff securing him to the metal railing, surrounded by hard-eyed strangers and the man he’d once called friend.

Those were the nights he woke already searching for Sophie and the peace she offered him. On some level Eliot understood the differences between losing himself in the feel of her body responding to his touch and losing himself in a bottle were minimal, but he clung to them with fierce desperation. For better or worse, Sophie reminded him that he was alive, and her presence gave that fact some meaning. She gave him a reason to get up in the morning, even if all they did was stumble through another day trying to figure out how to put their lives back together.

This morning was no different…after a few tight, hard thrusts, Eliot rolled them so that Sophie was on her stomach underneath him. Coming up on his elbows, he increased his pace – fucking her until they were both gasping and sweating. Sophie’s back was pressed hard against his chest. Her pleading moans made him shiver as her body tightened hard around his shaft. “Oh God…Eliot…please…”

There was a high, keening edge to her voice, rising in pitch as she sobbed his name. “Eliot please…I can’t…I need…Oh God…” Her words bled away into a cry of relief as she came around him in a rush of warmth. Eliot felt his balls tighten, and then a moment later he was coming too – hips locked hard against her, the world reeling around him as his cock twitched and pulsed his release.  
*****************  
A dozen white roses graced the table in Maggie’s kitchen. She sipped her morning coffee, studying the blossoms and trying to decide how she felt about them. Things had been so much simpler before Nate’s death – she’d finally found a cultured, intelligent, sensitive man who valued her. He made her laugh, he challenged her – Maggie was starting to think about him in longer terms than she had anyone since her divorce.

And he’d been nothing but understanding since she’d gotten the phone call from James turning her world upside down again. “You take all the time you need,” he’d said, kissing her gently after she’d cried in his arms. “I’ll be here when you’re ready to think about moving forward again.”

The roses had come weeks after the funeral, a gentle reminder of his promise – the future that waited for her if she was bold enough to ask for it.

“Dammit, Nate,” she sighed, settling back in her chair and cupping her hands around the heated mug. The pain and confusion of the past month was only just now starting to fade to something tolerable, but Maggie still couldn’t control the flashes of resentment that overwhelmed her at odd times. She’d been the one Sterling had called after it happened, and he’d taken it for granted that she would shoulder the responsibility of flying to Boston, claiming Nate’s body, and making arrangement for the funeral.

Incredibly, he’d also been looking for absolution from her. _”I didn’t know he was hurt that bad, Maggie. I swear – not until it was too late.”_

She resented Nate for dying, she resented Sterling for his assumptions, and most of all she resented the fact that she was the closest thing her ex-husband had to a next of kin. His father was in jail, his mother was dead, and his “team” likely scattered to the four winds in the aftermath of everything that had happened. There wasn’t anyone else to do what needed to be done – not realistically.

James had at least had the decency to meet her at the airport and stay at her side through the ordeal of red tape required to release Nate’s body from police custody. “I’m taking him back to Los Angeles,” she’d declared, relieved that Sterling hadn’t questioned her decision. The least they could do for Nate now was to bury him next to his son.

It had never once occurred to her to ask if the team even knew Nate was dead. He was ten days in the ground when James slipped in the middle of a conversation and made an off-handed remark on the subject. “They don’t know?” she’d asked, completely stunned by the revelation. “How could they not know?”

Sterling not only hadn’t been able to answer her, he’d been adamant that he didn’t care if they ever found out. Dumb luck meant that Maggie still had Eliot’s cell number, and James’ lack of concern meant the task of telling them fell to her. _And hadn’t that been a fun conversation?_ Eliot hadn’t reacted emotionally to the news, but he’d needed far more detail than she was comfortable sharing.

She’d cried for nearly an hour after hanging up.

Remembering now, Maggie felt her heart ache with old pain. She was tired of crying, and tired of being pulled back into a world where Nate was the center of everything. “I’m not letting you take me down into that coffin with you, dammit,” she muttered, reaching for the phone.

Flipping it open, she dialed a number from memory. There was a gallery opening tonight in West Beverly Hills that she’d been wanting to attend. Maybe it was time she started moving forward again – time to answer the promise of the roses on her table.

“Damien? It’s Maggie Collins.”  
************************  
It was mid-morning by the time either of them felt like getting out of bed, and then only because there was a client to screen at noon. Eliot grabbed a quick shower, and was dressed and ready to leave by the time Sophie emerged from the bathroom in her robe, toweling her dark hair dry.

“Do you want me to handle the meet with you?” He felt like a traitor for praying she’d say no. Screening clients was the one area where Sophie felt Nate’s loss most keenly. Eliot and Hardison had decided between them to do what they could to make sure she didn’t have to face it alone. With his nightmare still crowding him though, Eliot just didn’t feel up to facing somebody else’s grief this morning.

Sophie’s eyes met his in the mirror. “Hardison’ll handle it. I need you to talk to Parker again.”

Eliot blew out a quiet breath; he definitely wasn’t up to having this argument again. _Not this morning._ Parker was trying to cope with Nate’s death the only way she knew how; if staying in his apartment – sleeping in his bed – brought her any measure of peace at all, he couldn’t see the harm. Sophie, on the other hand, had refused to budge an inch on the subject. _“I can’t have her there,”_ she’d said on more than one occasion. _”We’ll get her any kind of help she’s willing to accept, Eliot, but I can’t have her up there.”_

He waited longer than necessary, but there was only one answer he could give in the end and avoid a fight. “I’ll talk to her.” As long as she wasn’t expecting him to succeed, it didn’t cost him anything to agree. And it was worth the concession to see some of the tension ease in her shoulders and the muscles along her jaw.

The security buzzer saved him from any further conversation. Eliot had a secondary intercom unit installed next to his bedroom door. “Yes?”

_“Mr. Spencer, we have a delivery here for a Ms. Devereaux?”_

_So much for relaxing,_ Eliot thought, exchanging a worried glance with Sophie. Nobody should have known enough to send Sophie anything here. “What is it?” he asked.

 _”Flowers, sir,”_ the doorman said. _”Nice arrangement too – appears to be about a dozen white roses.”_

Eliot felt the bottom drop out of his world.  
********************  
Hardison finished saving the information he and Sophie would need for their meeting with the new client, and went back to surfing the web. _We need more work; more people to help._ They’d all complained about the pace Nate preferred to operate at one time or another, but lately Hardison had found new appreciation for the distractions offered by a job. If they were helping some poor down-trodden soul, it meant they didn’t have to look too closely at the mess they’d made of the rest of their lives.

He glanced up, hearing footsteps on the spiral staircase. “Morning!” He tried not to sound too cheerful; Parker wasn’t anywhere near what you’d call a morning person as a rule – but every day she didn’t run was a win, as far as he was concerned.

The thief mumbled something unintelligible, stumbling off the bottom stairs and lurching towards the kitchen. “I bought you new cereal,” Hardison said, not bothering to take his eyes off the monitor this time. There was some promising movement in an investment firm – he bookmarked the article so he could read it in more depth later and went on to the next likely subject. Behind him he heard the rattle of processed sugar and fiber nuggets tumbling into a bowl as Parker fixed her breakfast.

Several minutes passed by in relative silence. Hardison worked, while Parker leaned on the countertop – eating her cereal and gradually becoming more awake. It was peaceful, or at least as close to what Hardison imagined peaceful was like for normal people these days.

“Who sent the flowers?” Parker’s question, seemingly coming out of nowhere, startled Hardison.

He’d almost forgotten about the delivery man he’d met in the hallway that morning. _A dozen blood red roses in a simple crystal vase._ Hardison wasn’t anywhere near an expert on flowers, but they’d looked damn near perfect to him. “No card,” he said, getting up and stretching his arms and shoulders as he joined Parker at the counter. “Figured they were probably from some admirer of Sophie’s.”

Parker winced at the sound of the grifter’s name, and Hardison tried to pretend he hadn’t seen it. _So much damn fallout._

Then again, Nathan Ford had never been one to do things small. “Why don’t you come sleep at my place tonight?” he asked abruptly. “Give yourself a break.” He started to reach for her, but Parker stepped away from him quickly, shaking her head. _Okay, give Sophie a break,_ he thought, letting his hand fall to his side. That was the part he couldn’t say out loud, though. “Parker…”

“It feels safer here,” she said, her eyes huge and filled with all the grief she didn’t know how to process. “Like he’s not really gone.”

And really – what was he supposed to say to _that_?  
**********************  
The maids were paid extra not to disturb what they saw in the suite. Surveillance photos, sketches, and blow-ups of pages from a leather-bound journal had been mounted on the walls. The room’s sole occupant spent hours staring at the display, going from sheet to sheet in turn. He ate room service when he was hungry, and slept at irregular intervals.

And right now he hated his job. It wasn’t something that happened often – he’d never had any trouble lying to law breakers, or people that helped them, starting from his time as a junior investigator for IYS, running all the way to his current work for Interpol. He’d never felt any guilt about chasing Nate Ford and his crew once Nate had crossed the line separating legal from that which was less so, and Nate’s drunken assertions to the contrary they’d once been the closest of friends.

Lying to Maggie Collins that he was returning to London bothered him, however – particularly in light of what he’d found in her house.

Nursing a Scotch, Sterling sighed and picked up the book that had yielded so much disturbing information in so impossibly short a time. It had caught his eye the first night he and Maggie had brought Nate’s body back to Los Angeles. They’d had dinner together, and Maggie had invited him back to her place for drinks afterwards. “I don’t feel like being alone right now,” had been her excuse at the time.

He’d initially begged off the invitation, worried that the emotion and stress of Nate’s death was driving her in a direction they would both regret, but Maggie had immediately picked up on his concern. “I’m in a serious relationship, James,” she said gently. “I just want the company. Please.”

The exchange had been incredibly embarrassing and awkward, but Sterling had gamely pushed past it. The truth was he’d been glad to spend time talking with somebody who shared similarly complicated feelings about Nate.

He’d spotted the book on her shelf when Maggie had excused herself to take a call from her mystery man. “He’s in Paris on business,” had been her hasty explanation, but Sterling hadn’t missed how quickly she brightened at the prospect of talking to him. While she was out of the room, he’d amused himself perusing her collection of titles. Maggie had always been a voracious reader, and her living room shelves boasted titles ranging from the latest Nora Roberts thriller to high-end “coffee table” books about art and architecture throughout the ages.

In the midst of all this professionally published glory, the battered leather journal had stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. And when Sterling had seen what was pressed between the covers – well, the sketches of Sophie Devereaux and Eliot Spencer could have been explained. Maggie was an artist in her own right, and Sterling knew she’d briefly been involved with Spencer. Even the dried roses – one white, one red – weren’t entirely out of place.

 _The rest of it, though…_ Financial codes, notes, surveillance photos – none of which made any sense for Maggie to have, until she returned from her phone call; happy and eager to talk about her new relationship. “He’s an investor – international finance,” she’d said. “Has his hands in a lot of projects, donates a lot to charity, the arts…”

She freely admitted that he was almost too good to be true without a trace of the crushing irony Sterling felt when she finally told him Mr. Wonderful’s name.

“Damien Moreau.”  
********************  
Eliot had already been on the lookout for it, but that didn’t do much to lessen his feeling of dread when he saw the arrangement of perfectly matched red roses sitting on the counter. “Where did these come from?” he asked.

Hardison glanced over his shoulder. “Florist brought ‘em this morning. Looks like Sophie’s got a secret admirer with some class.”

Sophie was staring openly at Eliot; he’d already sworn that he wasn’t responsible for the white roses that had been delivered to his place. _But she knows this means something to you._ He already knew he’d telegraphed his worry – he didn’t bother hiding the fact that this was bad. _Very bad._

Still eyeing him cautiously, Sophie asked, “Hardison, who sent the flowers?”

Eliot was surprised that the hacker hadn’t picked up on the fact that anything was wrong. He felt like every secret he had was suddenly on display. “Carlson's down on the corner,” Hardison said. “Why?”

Sophie turned then, taking a step towards the monitors. “Can you tell me who placed the order?”

Hardison was already reaching for his keyboard. “No problem. What's up? Your secret admirer get you the wrong type?”

“Sophie...” Eliot began, half-hoping somehow she’d let it go. This wasn’t anything he was ready for the others to get their teeth into yet. Not until he had a better idea of what was at stake.

As far as Sophie was concerned, however, it was too late. “I don't know anyone that would spend that kind of money on roses for me,” she said, looking back at him. “Nobody who should know enough about me to have them delivered here _or_ your place.” She drew in a deep, steadying breath – Eliot saw the tension in her shoulders again. “Unless this is something Nate set in motion months ago, I think we need to figure out who sent them and why.”

“Nate wouldn't do this,” Eliot said. His heart was pounding, and his adrenaline levels were suddenly much too high. “He'd be afraid of reminding you about what happened with Chaos.”

He saw the stain of memory shadow her dark eyes, but he’d said exactly the wrong thing to convince her to give up. _Flower arrangement, delivered to the apartment in her name with a bomb buried in the vase._ It had been the catalyst for her leaving, the reason she and Nate had lost the last months they could have ever spent with each other. “Hardison,” she said quietly, breaking eye contact with Eliot and prompting the hacker back on task.

The apartment was quiet for several impossibly long moments, before Hardison finally made a sound that indicated he'd found something. “Flowers were paid for by DM Holdings, Limited. Offices in London, Paris, Boston, DC...”

“That sounds like somebody Sophie would know,” Parker said, but she froze when she looked back at them. A second later Sophie realized Parker wasn't staring at her; she turned to face Eliot as well.

“I know DM Holdings,” he admitted. “And I know the roses.” He looked at Sophie. “But you have a client to talk to, and I’ve got things to take care of up here.” _Please don’t push this,_ he silently begged her. He needed to sort some things out for himself before he shared that particular part of his past with the others.

“It can keep until later?” Sophie asked.

He nodded. “I promise.”  
************************  
Parker knew what was coming, the instant Eliot mentioned having “things to take care of” up here. That meant Hardison was going with Sophie to meet the client. The grifter was a little too upbeat as she kissed Eliot good-bye and promised they wouldn’t be long.

And Hardison – the hacker suddenly couldn’t meet her eyes. Parker didn’t need to be as good as Sophie at reading people to know that was a sign of a guilty conscience. Anger twisted up around the sadness that seemed to be her default state these days, and when Eliot finally looked at her, all she wanted to do was hit him. “I’m not going.”

She needed Eliot to fight back, needed him to give her that barely restrained frustration that meant things were normal, things were okay… _Nate wasn’t gone._ The small, silent, desperate prayer brought her up short, gasping around the sudden pain in her chest. She couldn’t stop thinking about him, couldn’t stop missing him.

_Things were never going to be okay again._

Nowhere was that more obvious than when Eliot didn’t rise to her bait. He stood quietly, saying nothing for an impossibly long time, and to her horror Parker imagined she saw his shoulders slump just a little. “You’re just avoiding the truth,” he said quietly. “Nate’s dead. He’s not coming back, and until you stop camping out up there and we stop preserving that place as a shrine, none of us are going to be able to deal with it.”

Parker hated him for saying it, but in spite of her determination to cling to the last bits of Nate they had left a tiny spark inside her responded to his suggestion that there was a chance she might not hurt this much someday.  
**********************  
Sterling finally picked up his cell phone. He’d gone as far as he could with his investigation on his own; he was on the verge of cracking several of the codes in the journal, but nothing in the Interpol computers or the minds of any of his contacts were enough to take him the rest of the way.

Meanwhile Damien Moreau was becoming more bold and far more disturbingly public in his courting of Maggie Collins. The two of them had gone to gallery openings, theater openings, and dinner at every exclusive, high-profile restaurant in Los Angeles. She was head over heels for the man, and the longer it went on, the harder it was going to be for Sterling to convince her of the truth.

He looked at the sketches of Sophie and Eliot Spencer again. One or both of them had a connection to Moreau. One or both of them would be able to answer his questions. _And they’ll take responsibility for telling Maggie for me._ For Nate’s sake, they wouldn’t allow the relationship to progress.

Blowing out a quiet breath, Sterling began to dial a Boston number from memory.  
*********************  
By the time she and Hardison returned to the loft, Sophie felt like she’d been scraped raw inside and out. The client had been a wreck – single mother, one dead child, two she was having trouble keeping fed and clothed, victim of a heartless corporation – exactly the kind of underdog that would have had Nate salivating to mount up and rain the fire of divine retribution all over the evil doers.

“We don’t have to take this on,” Hardison suggested, stopping her before she could open the door. “We can come up with something else – give them enough money to see them through until the system catches up with what’s going on.”

Sophie smiled sadly at him, covering his hand with her own. “Either we’re going to do this or we’re not, Hardison. I’ll be fine.”

He grinned wryly at her. “Nate always said you were the greatest actress in the world, when it was an act.”

When they went inside, Eliot was in the kitchen – putting the finishing touches on lunch. Parker was curled up on the sofa, watching a cartoon on the giant bank of monitors that dominated one wall. Sophie went towards Eliot, suddenly needing the reassurance of his touch. “Bad?” he asked softly, putting down the spoon he’d been using to stir something on the stove, and wrapping her in his arms.

She nodded, relaxing into his embrace and breathing in his scent. Eliot kissed her hair. “We taking the job?”

“We have to,” she sighed, pulling free. Leaning against the counter, she looked up at Eliot. “How're things up here?”

A shadow fell across his expression – Eliot gestured past her shoulder with a small jerk of his head. Sophie turned to see that Hardison had joined Parker on the couch. The thief had crawled into the hacker's lap, and was hugging him for all she was worth. Her face was buried in the curve where his neck sloped into his shoulder, and her bright hair spilled in a tangled mess down his back.

Sighing quietly, Sophie leaned back against Eliot's chest. “I'm a horrible person,” she murmured. It was so easy to forget that her loss wasn't necessarily bigger than what any of the others were coping with – just different.

Eliot wrapped his arms around her again, holding her safe. “I'm not going to feed your ego,” he said quietly. “She's agreed to stay with Hardison for now. Tomorrow he and I are going to start packing everything away.”

 _Packing..._ Intellectually Sophie understood it was the next step, something that was overdue, but for a heartbeat she wanted to take it all back. _I keep doing that lately._ She was supposed to be able to flawlessly navigate her way through any situation, no matter how emotionally volatile, and yet these days she couldn’t seem to stop things from blowing up in her face.

 _In for a penny…_ “So what’s the deal with the roses?” she asked.  
*************  
Eliot winced when she asked the question. He hadn’t had the energy to figure out how to approach the problem presented by the flowers after speaking to Parker – he’d needed to the distraction of cooking to keep himself from flying apart. _You should have put it together. You should have figured out a way to keep this from them._ It never should have happened.

His cell phone rang then; lost in memories of the past and what it might mean for their present Eliot answered it almost as an after-thought. The voice on the other end of the line wasn't anyone he'd ever expected to hear from again. _“Spencer, don't hang up.”_

Stunned when he realized who had called him, Eliot nearly dropped the phone. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn't?” _Sterling._ The man he'd trusted to keep Nate safe. The man who'd failed Nate almost as much as Eliot himself had. The red roses drew his attention all of a sudden, filling his vision.

 _“I need your help,”_ the Interpol agent admitted. _“I'm in Los Angeles, and I've found something you need to see.”_

Eliot's mind was suddenly spinning with possibilities. Nate was buried in Los Angeles. Maggie had her home there... “Let me guess,” he said, instinct guiding his thoughts. He reached out to brush his fingertips against the cool crystal vase. “You've found an arrangement of perfectly matched white roses, and something about their existence bothers you.”

There was a moment of silence on the line then Sterling said, _“No arrangement. Just two dried roses – one white, one red.”_

Eliot realized with a jolt that his heart was pounding. “Dried roses?” he asked, his brain finally catching up with what Sterling had said. _Did Sterling have Damien's book?_ “Where were they?”

 _“In a leather bound journal,”_ Sterling said. Eliot swallowed hard. They hadn’t invented words yet for how bad this was going to get. _“Along with surveillance photos of you and Sophie Devereaux, sketches, and codes that my superiors are very interested in trying to crack.”_ He paused. _“I’m thinking you're in a position to short-circuit that process.”_

 _Dammit Sterling!_ His access to Interpol's database meant that the agent likely already knew all about Eliot's work for Damien Moreau. _More than I've had the guts to tell them._ The guilty thought teased at him as he tried to ignore the flurry of activity going on behind him. “He wouldn't have just given you the book,” he growled. “Where did you find it?”

When he heard the details of how Sterling had come into possession of one of the most valuable artifacts of the entire global underworld, Eliot didn't hesitate to promise that he and Sophie would be on the next available flight to Los Angeles.  
*************  
Hardison hadn't even needed Sophie's wordless command to begin working his cyber magic on Eliot's phone call. When he realized the person on the other end of the line was James Sterling, he immediately started feeding everything Eliot was saying into his system and cross-referencing the lot.

 _Eliot knew about the roses._ They meant something to the hitter – something very not good. And while they still didn't know a lot about each other, Hardison was smart enough to realize that anything that scared Eliot Spencer was something worth the rest of them being terrified of. _And white roses?_ Adding the concept of a paired set of arrangements into the mix didn't help much.

When he heard Eliot promise that he and Sophie would fly immediately to Los Angeles, Hardison's brain immediately went to Nate... _and Maggie._

“This is about Nate, isn't it?”

Hardison glanced over to see that Parker had scooted closer to him. Her eyes were still too large in her pale, drawn face and his heart broke to see her. He didn't want to be dealing with this anymore. They had to start healing sometime soon, or the damage was going to grow to be too much for them to ever recover from.

“We're going to Los Angeles?” he heard Sophie ask. Realizing Eliot was done with his call, Hardison stood and turned to face the hitter.

“If you think Parker and I are going to let you two meet with fucking _Sterling_ on your own, y'all have lost your damn minds,” he snapped, meeting Eliot's eyes without flinching.

He could tell Eliot wanted to argue with him, but Sophie's gasp of horror tipped the balance of favor away from him. “It's important,” he said. “You have to trust me on this.”

Hardison shrugged. “Fine. It's so damn important we'll all go.”

Eliot clenched his fists at his side, but the expected explosion of temper never came. “You can't. We need to get things moving to help Mrs. Dooley and her kids.”

“And you don't think we can handle ourselves,” Hardison countered.

“I don't want you two in the line of fire!” Eliot snapped. He exhaled immediately, forcing himself back under control. “I don't know why, but right now you're not on this guy's radar. We need to keep it that way as long as possible.”

“Eliot, who?” Sophie asked. “You need to be straight with us.”

Hitter and grifter shared a long look, filled with so much emotion Hardison was tempted to look away. Finally Eliot sighed heavily, most of his tension draining away like water.

“Damien Moreau.”  
**************************  
It was everything he loved and hated about the strange family Nate had gathered around himself. They'd all been loners when they'd first met; now Sophie, Hardison and Parker were loyal to the point of stupidity. Eliot knew he’d have to be straight with them, tell them exactly what sort of danger they were courting if they went against his instructions.

He had to make them understand. And that meant confessing to associations he'd sworn never to discuss with anyone ever again.

“The roses are for me,” he said, when the four of them had gathered on the couch. “They're a message from an old employer.”

“The white roses were delivered to me,” Sophie said, her expression a study in confusion.

“At _my_ apartment,” Eliot reminded her.

“I couldn't find anything connected to that kind of pairing,” Hardison interjected.

Eliot smiled wryly. He would have been incredibly impressed if Hardison had been able to crack this particular code of Damien's. “You won't. It's too personal for cyberspace.” He sighed. “The red roses go to the target – the one who has something Moreau wants.” He saw their individual responses to the name Moreau, but didn't bother to take it back. “White roses are sent to the hostage, the one who's going to be made to pay if the target doesn't comply.”

“Why did you ask Sterling if he’d seen an arrangement of white roses?” Sophie asked. Eliot sighed heavily. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a third set of roses in play and that Maggie was somehow a part of whatever Damien had planned.

“Sterling has something of Moreau’s. A book.” He scrubbed a hand across his face, fighting the instinct to keep quiet. This was basic – this was stuff he was never supposed to have shared with anyone. “It _never_ leaves Damien’s possession.”

“And yet somehow Sterling has it,” Sophie supplied. Finally meeting her eyes, Eliot nodded.

“You still haven't explained why Hardison and I can't go,” Parker said. Eliot hated shutting her down – the thief was more engaged with what was going on than she'd been since Nate's death. “Mrs. Dooley and her kids can wait. Hardison already told me we can throw some money at the problem.” She twitched, but didn't offer commentary on voluntarily being parted from their cash.

“Sterling told me there were surveillance photos between the pages of the book,” Eliot said finally. “Photos of me and Sophie. My best guess is that he's trying to tell me that he'll go after her if I don't do what he wants.” He looked directly at Parker. “I don't want to give him reason to threaten you and Hardison if we can avoid it.”  
**********************  
Sunshine streamed through the drapery sheers. Maggie groaned reflexively, burying her face against the chest of the man lying next to her.

“I knew we forgot something last night,” Damien said, sounding far more amused than anyone had a right to be, as he stroked her hair reassuringly. He was very careful about disentangling himself, so he could get up and release the heavier curtains.

By the time he returned Maggie had burrowed under the nearest pillow trying to get away from the light. His fingers gently traced the curve of her spine, exposed by the sheets falling down to pool at her waist. “Not a morning person, hmm?”

She shivered when he gently kissed the back of her neck, making a small sound of pleasure.

“Not _entirely_ a morning person then,” he amended, shifting in bed until he was spooned around her. The hand that had been teasing at her spine slid slowly over her hip, pushing between her legs at the same moment he plucked the pillow off her with his other hand. “Can I interest you in a distraction perhaps?”

Maggie licked her lips, staring up into Damien's dark eyes. He wanted her here and now, and she was tired of thinking through all the implications of wanting him in return. “I think I could be convinced,” she said, reaching up and pulling him down for a kiss.

His fingers teased at her clit until she was wet and writhing. “I would very much like to taste you,” he whispered, licking at her earlobe as she shuddered and came for the first time. “I know it might sound somewhat forward when we're...”

“Stop.” Rolling into him, Maggie pressed her fingers against his lips. “I appreciate you still wanting to go slow, Damien, but I'm not going to break.” Moving her hand she kissed him – a gentle promise of more to come. “I wouldn't have asked you to stay if I wasn't ready to learn everything about you. I want to know what you like, what you don't...no secrets between us.”

When he kissed her that time, it was open-mouthed and passionate. Maggie felt the press of his erection against her hip. “You are an amazing woman, Maggie,” he murmured. Shifting his hold on her, he urged her up until she was straddling his hips. “I want to spend the day learning how to make love to you – everything that brings you pleasure.”

Balancing herself against his chest, Maggie pressed up so that he could grip the base of his shaft and angle his cock inside her. “I would love that,” she admitted, moaning low in her throat as he filled her.  
********************  
They’d arranged to meet Sterling at his hotel room that evening. _”I’m courting death by even having these things,”_ he’d said when Eliot had tried to press him to come to them. _”I’m not suicidal enough to try trekking them across the city.”_

It bothered Sophie more than she cared to admit that Eliot hadn’t argued with Sterling. “I can’t believe you’re okay with going to him,” she said as soon as he’d finally hung up. “What about a public meeting if he won’t come here?”

“Public spot puts us where Moreau’s people can potentially get at us,” Eliot said. He rubbed his eyes, looking tired. “I need to see that book. Sterling shouldn’t have it – the fact that he does, and that we’re in it means something.”

Sophie wished again she could figure out the magic formula to get him to open up to her – it was physically painful seeing him this twisted up inside. “Come here,” she said finally. Reaching out, she pulled him into an embrace. “We’re going to figure this out. Don’t worry.”

His hands tightened on her, fingers clenching against the fabric of her blouse. “I’m not going to let him hurt you,” he murmured. There was a hitch in his breathing that scared her – Eliot was usually the one in control, the one prepared to handle any threat. She hadn’t seen him this rattled since Nate’s death. “I promise, Sophie. No matter what it takes.”

“I know,” she said. Her validation of his promise seemed to comfort him somewhat – he looked more like himself when they finally separated from each other.

“Are we calling Maggie?” she asked, trying to steer things into slightly less desperate waters. Eliot flopped into one of the room’s cheaply made “easy” chairs and looked up at her.

“Not until we see what Sterling’s got,” he said. “We still haven’t confirmed Maggie got the white roses first of all, and if she’s dating Moreau…” His voice trailed off, and she saw him shudder. “I’m not ready to tip him off until we’ve got as much information as possible on our side. This is somebody with more power and connections than we’ve ever taken on, Sophie. We couldn’t derail him even if we still had Nate’s strategic skill to draw on.”

 _And there he is again._ Sophie took a seat on the edge of the bed opposite Eliot, meeting his gaze. “Do you think we’ll ever be able to go through a day without mentioning his name?”

His answering smile was sad and wistful. “God strike me down for saying it, but I sure hope so. He was one of the most frustrating people I ever knew, but he had a good heart.” He blew out a quiet breath. “And he got a raw deal.”

Before Sophie could say anything to that, Eliot reached across and took her hand. “Most of all I want to stop feeling like I don’t have any right to love you.”

Tears burned Sophie’s eyes, but she squeezed his hand. “Me too,” she admitted, her throat tight around the confession.

Eliot surged to his feet again, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her. “I’m going to make this right Sophie, I swear.”

“I know,” she said.  
************************  
They ended up falling asleep together on the bed, stress and jet lag finally getting the better of them both. It was late when Eliot finally woke – disoriented and nervous. After looking at the clock and ascertaining that they still had time to make their meeting with Sterling, he gently shook Sophie awake.

“Do you think Moreau knows what we’re doing?” she asked, as they gathered what little they planned on taking with them.

Eliot couldn’t help chuckling. “If Damien sends you roses, Soph – it’s already too late.” All he could do now was minimize the fallout – he didn’t dare hope for anything more.

Sterling’s hotel was across town, and surprisingly understated. Eliot would have almost said that it didn’t fit with what they knew of “Evil Nate”, as Parker had first termed him – but on second thought he realized that if Sterling was as scared as he should have been, low key was definitely the way to go. _Or ‘lower key’,_ he amended once Sterling opened the door and admitted them to his suite.

“Hello, darling,” he drawled, his expression cold. “Miss me?”

Eliot was able to resist throwing back a sarcastic comment only because his eyes were immediately drawn to the papers covering the walls of the room. Sophie’s sharp intake of breath was a perfect expression of how he felt confronted with sketches, surveillance photos, and pages and pages of Damien’s elegant handwriting – coded notes as well as plain speech.

Sterling brushed past them and went to the room’s desk. He picked up a worn, oversized leather bound book, turned and handed it to Eliot. Eliot immediately found himself fighting the temptation to drop it, or shrink back in revulsion – something he knew would amuse Sterling greatly, for all that the Interpol agent seemed to be grasping the facts of their situation. The book came from a time of his life he’d long thought dead and buried. All of Moreau’s most important secrets were coded between its covers. _And messages for people like me,_ he thought. He’d never thought to even see it, much less hold it, ever again.

“I imagine this means a great deal more to you than it does to me,” Sterling said. He glanced at Sophie. “You’re looking well. It’s been too long.”

Eliot didn’t need to look to know that Sophie’s expression was as hot with anger as Sterling’s was cool with disdain. “The least you could have done was call us when it happened,” she snapped.

“I contacted the closest thing Nate had to a next of kin,” Sterling countered. “Don’t expect me to apologize for the fact that wasn’t you.” He brushed an imaginary bit of lint from his suit. “Dear Nate is at peace with his son. I think we’d all do better starting to let bygones be bygones.” He turned back towards Eliot, glancing pointedly at the book. “And focus on more immediate things. Like that.”

Tightening his grip on the book, Eliot walked towards the blow-ups of text Sterling had posted on the wall. The first three were outdated, even going by Eliot’s experiences with Moreau. Every shipment they chronicled had happened long before he’d gone to work for Damien. The fourth bothered him – it was a series of very recent notations chronicling shipments and cargo from around the time of Nate’s death.

Turning towards Sterling, he asked, “Do you know how long Moreau and Maggie have been involved?”

Sterling’s smile widened, but there was still no warmth to it. “Already went there, Spencer. Long enough that there are no direct connections between his relationship with Maggie and Nate’s death.”

 _You’d think so,_ Eliot thought, trying not to fight the connections his brain was making. He could get to the answer, so long as he didn’t rush things – didn’t over-think it. _Damien wants you to figure this out,_ he thought, more sure than ever that he was on the right track. _He wants you to know exactly what he’s after, so it’ll really hurt when you know you’ve got no choice but to give it to him._

He met Sterling’s gaze again, holding up the book. “Damien Moreau does not leave this behind by accident. You were meant to find it.”

“And contact you,” Sterling agreed, nodding. “So now that we’re dancing to Moreau’s tune, what does he want? What is he trying to say?”

Eliot was reasonably sure he had most of the pieces now, but he wasn’t ready to admit as much to Sterling or Sophie. “It’s time to go see Maggie.”  
*******************  
Sophie suddenly couldn’t breathe properly; her chest tightened against all the things she’d never had the chance to say to Maggie Collins. She wanted to like Nate’s ex-wife – hell, she _had_ liked Maggie when they were all working together to take down Ian Blackpoole. _We all did._ Even though they’d all seen the emotional connection that was still very much in play between Nate and Maggie, Sophie had understood. The team had done that job for Nate. Maggie was the only one besides the mastermind who’d gone after Ian for her own satisfaction and to gain some closure.

The job in Kiev had worried Sophie somewhat more, especially when Tara reported a kiss between Nate and Maggie that had been witnessed by Parker. “In all fairness,” her friend had hastened to reassure her, “they were pretty sure they were going to die.” Sophie liked to think she could have forgiven anybody’s behavior when the threat of being blown to bits was imminent.

The fact that Maggie hadn’t thought to let them know Nate was even dead until it was too late to say good-bye though – _that_ definitely played to Sophie’s baser, less forgiving nature. She didn’t understand the move. It didn’t fit with her read of Maggie, and that bothered her more than anything. She didn’t want to think that Nate’s ex-wife was capable of doing something like that.

 _And Damien Moreau..?_ There had been opportunities in Sophie’s past for her to make a run at plying her trade with Damien Moreau. She was even sure she could have played the man, however Moreau was the kind of mark who rarely forgave and never forgot – one wrong move on Sophie’s part, and no score in the world would have been enough to buy her way clear of his vengeance.

Nate would have moved heaven and earth to warn Maggie about becoming involved with a man like that. Her own messed up emotions aside, Sophie knew she and Eliot couldn’t do any less.

It was late enough when they rang the doorbell of Maggie’s neat little home that Sophie suspected she was the only one who saw past the hastily donned silk robe. Nate ex-wife was smiling and breathless, and there was a glow of true happiness about her expression. Nerves taut, Sophie edged closer to Eliot. Whatever Maggie had been up to when they rang, she hadn’t been doing it alone.

They were also some of the last people she’d expected to see. Sophie could sense Maggie’s emotional defenses rising as she looked at each of them in turn before focusing on Sterling. “What’s going on?”

“We need to talk, Maggie,” Eliot said, drawing her attention. He stepped up so that he was level with the Interpol agent. “Please.”

“It’s not a good time right now,” Maggie said sharply, shaking her head and backing up. She started to close the door, but Sterling caught it mid-swing and held it open.

“Maggie please,” he said, catching her eyes. His voice was more gentle than Sophie had ever heard it before. “Nobody wants to upset you, but this is important.” He was silent for a moment, willing her to understand. “Please.”

“I have company, James,” Maggie told him. “I can’t do this right now…”

Pure instinct drove Sophie to loop her left arm tightly around Eliot’s right – tangling him up and distracting him for a half-second just as a man appeared in the doorway behind Maggie. “Company, darling?” Damien Moreau rested a possessive hand on Maggie’s shoulder. “Invite them in.”  
**********************  
The amount of control it took Eliot to keep himself from lashing out at Sophie when she held him back left him shaking. He knew better than any of them what Moreau was capable of, and he was the only one that knew the level of game being played. He wouldn’t have risked everything by physically assaulting Moreau before he was absolutely certain it was the right move.

 _You can’t exactly blame her though,_ he had to admit to himself. None of them were at their best right now, and it was perfectly reasonable for Sophie to assume with somebody like Damien Moreau standing at Maggie’s back, that Eliot’s first thought would have been to rescue her and work the rest of it out later. _It’s what Nate would have done._

Using Sterling’s entry into the house as cover, Eliot slipped free of Sophie’s hold and turned to face her. “You have to trust me here,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I know what I’m doing, Soph.”

He saw literally hundreds of arguments flash across her expression in an instant, but after a long moment she nodded. “I trust you, Eliot.”

Seeing that she meant it steadied him more than he would have expected possible. “Thank you,” he said, leaning forward and kissing her.

When they turned to follow Sterling into the house, Maggie and Damien were watching them – Maggie’s expression decidedly disapproving, Damien’s disturbingly judgmental. Eliot didn’t quite hear Maggie’s comment to Sophie as the grifter brushed past her, but they all heard Sophie’s response.

“No.” She’d turned on clearing the doorway, and was backing away from the couple. “I’m sorry, Maggie. You don’t get to pass judgment on how I choose to move on with my life. You got to say your good-byes.”

Maggie expression slid from disapproving to enraged; Eliot grabbed Sophie before the other woman could say anything and forced her behind him. “Calm down,” he hissed. The emotional temperature of the room was already too high. If something didn’t change fast, Damien was the only one who was coming out of this a winner.

Sterling made a small cough; Eliot glanced reflexively towards him, and saw the expected second bouquet of white roses sitting on the window sill. The weight of knowledge and intent was in Damien’s eyes when Eliot swung back to face his old employer. “Most people just call,” Eliot said, drawing the journal out of his jacket pocket and tossing it underhand to Moreau – who caught it neatly.

“You wouldn’t have answered,” Damien said. Eliot saw Maggie’s eyes widen as she glanced between them.

“You two know each other?”

Damien reached out and drew her under his shoulder. “Eliot and I are old friends, my darling.” He kissed her hair. “I have some business I need to take care of with him if you don’t mind?”

Maggie looked at first as though she was about to protest, but Eliot saw her glance at Sterling and knew immediately that Nate’s ex-wife would instead take what she saw as the path of least resistance to find out what she wanted to know. It was one of the reasons he’d only shared part of what he suspected about Damien’s plan with Sophie and Sterling; Maggie would likely be on them the second Eliot and Moreau were out of earshot.

Her expression was carefully neutral however, when she said, “You can talk in the other room.”

Eliot barely contained his shudder of revulsion when Damien tenderly cupped her cheek and kissed her – his expression almost kind. “Thank you Maggie.” Releasing her after a long moment, he stepped back and faced Eliot. “Shall we?” He gestured at a closed set of doors leading deeper into the house.

Eliot followed Moreau without comment. The room behind the doors was a formal dining room. Eliot looked it over thoroughly, and then walked straight into the next room after that. Smiling indulgently, Damien followed him.

“I’m pleased you were able to decipher my clues,” he said, when they were alone in a more casually decorated room and the doors were shut between them and the rest of the house. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”

“It’s the kind of game that sticks with you,” Eliot admitted. “What do you want, Damien?”

“I don’t lie to you, Eliot,” the other man said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I have something that I believe you will be willing to trade me for – something of great value, for something that I want very much.”

Eliot blinked, surprised by the revelation. “You want to _sell_ me something?” He hadn’t gotten far enough down his mental list to even consider whether or not this might have been Damien’s ultimate goal.

Moreau’s expression was patient. “I want to give you the opportunity to buy something back from me,” he countered. “What would you pay to get back something you’d thought was lost forever?”

Eliot’s mind was suddenly racing. _A business transaction? That’s what this was about?_ The roses were typically only brought into play for something personal. _You wouldn’t have let yourself be drawn here if it wasn’t for the threats to Sophie and Maggie._ “And I wouldn’t stay if it wasn’t something you knew I really wanted,” he finished out loud, not worrying about the fact that Damien hadn’t actually heard the first part of his statement.

“You always were smarter than people gave you credit for,” Moreau said. “So tell me – what would you offer?”

“It would depend on the item,” Eliot said automatically. “How valuable it was.” Damien’s expression was calculating – Moreau seemed to be silently willing him to make the final connection. _He thinks I should know what he’s offering. It’s something personal to us…to me…or he wouldn’t have set things up this way._

“It could be the most priceless thing anyone would ever offer you,” Moreau said finally. “The least you can do is tell me how much it would be worth to you.”

The pieces finally tumbled into place. Eliot opened his mouth, intending to answer Damien, but no sound came out at first. _Not possible. Not fucking possible._ If he was finally reading Moreau right, the man had played them – played them all in the most hurtful, most damaging way possible. _And for what?_

As soon as he asked himself the question, Eliot knew the answer. _For me._ He had received the red roses. _He_ was Damien’s target.

Moreau knew the moment Eliot had the game figured out. “Play with me, Eliot.” His voice was silky…dangerous... “You know I’ll make it worth your while.”

Once upon a time this man had been closer to Eliot than any family or lover he’d ever known. They’d shared everything. _Now though…_ “I’m not going to haggle with you Damien,” Eliot said carefully. “Not about this. Not if I’m right. You know _exactly_ how important this is.”

He’d long believed he was one of the few people that had ever seen Damien Moreau’s genuine smile – how he looked when he was truly pleased. _How he looked now._ “You don’t trust me. Eliot, I’m hurt!”

Now definitely wasn’t the time to flinch or back down. Eliot knew this mood of Damien’s all too well; he’d seen for himself just how fast it could sour. “Only a fool would take what you’re suggesting on faith,” he said finally.

Moreau studied him for a long moment, and then chuckled. “You are certainly no fool, my friend. Proof of life it is.” He gestured towards the next room, where the others waited. “Make your excuses, then come with me. I’ll show you my offer is no empty threat.”  
********************  
Maggie had lost track of how many times the phrase “too good to be true” had entered her mind since Damien Moreau had first swept her off her feet. Now, finally hearing the truth of the man she’d welcomed into her heart - _and into my bed!_ \- all she felt was cold.

“Tell me,” she said, hugging her arms across her chest and locking eyes with Sterling, “just tell me this man didn’t kill Nate.”

She needed the confirmation to come from James – the one person she knew understood how she still felt about her ex and his death. James would tell her it was all right, that she didn’t bear any guilt for being so blind that she would have willingly slept with Nate’s killer.

But it was Sophie that answered her first. “There’s no evidence,” she said, her expression suddenly sympathetic. “Nothing connecting Moreau with what happened to Nate.”

“Thank God for that,” Maggie muttered, looking away from the other woman. She desperately wanted to excuse herself – to change into something that didn’t scream to the world what she and Damien had been doing before everything fell apart so completely. She couldn’t risk leaving though. _Not until I hear everything._

“You do have tragic taste in men,” James observed quietly.

Maggie cut her eyes in his direction. “You’re a whole lot of help. Why didn’t you say anything when I first told you about him?”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at his reaction. “You wouldn’t have heard me.”

“They’re coming,” Sophie said, before Maggie could challenge Sterling’s assertion about her mental and emotional state. The grifter had stayed close enough to the dining room doors to be able to tell that Eliot and Damien had moved an additional room away in order to guarantee their privacy.

Damien’s eyes found hers as soon as he cleared the doorway. _Why?_ she wanted to scream at him. Maggie couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so used and betrayed that wasn’t directly connected to her son’s death.

He read the truth of her feelings in her eyes. “I would have hoped you’d be willing to give me the benefit of the doubt,” he said gently. Maggie could almost believe he was telling the truth. “The situation is somewhat more complicated than your friends have likely led you to believe.”

“The situation,” Sterling interjected, biting off the words, “is that you’re a criminal.” Silence fell over the room. Maggie waited for Sterling to follow up by saying that Damien was being arrested, that he was being taken into custody and she would never have to deal with him again.

The words never came. After another moment, Damien favored the Interpol agent with his most charming grin. “And the truth, Agent Sterling,” he said, “is that you have no proof to back up your claims.” He turned his attention back towards Maggie. “Eliot and I are leaving immediately, but I would like a chance to make things right with you.” When she couldn’t immediately answer him, Damien took a tentative step in her direction.

Shaking with fear and anger, Maggie stumbled away from him so fast that her back struck the nearby bookshelf. “I want you out of my house,” she stammered. Suddenly knowing why wasn’t nearly as important as making sure Damien Moreau never touched her again.

“Maggie,” he said – looking genuinely troubled by her reaction. Maggie felt her stomach roll queasily; this was the man she knew, not the criminal the others were trying to paint him. “After everything we’ve meant to each other, you owe me a chance…” He winced as Eliot stepped forward and grabbed his arm roughly. Suddenly the earnest pleading lover was gone, replaced by a very dangerous man who _didn’t_ like being manhandled by somebody he considered beneath him.

“You’re going to forget about her,” Eliot said – and Maggie could suddenly believe everything Nate had tried to tell her about how dangerous the hitter was. “You’ve got me. You don’t need the rest of them; any of them.”

Damien’s smile was cold. Maggie hugged her arms across her chest again, shivering. “I like her better than you,” he said, swinging to fix his eyes on Eliot. “She doesn’t give me any of the _cheap crap_ I have to put up with from you.”

Maggie was stunned to see Eliot take a step back from Moreau. “You know better than to give me orders,” Damien said, advancing on Spencer. Their wills clashed briefly, but Eliot broke eye contact first.

A long silence fell over the room. “Say your goodbyes,” Damien said finally. “I want to be away from here as soon as possible.”  
*******************  
Sophie wanted to push him away. She already knew what he was going to tell her, and her brain was desperately trying not to hear it. “Don’t…” she whispered. “Oh Eliot, please don’t.” _Don’t leave me too!_ She’d screwed up. She’d allowed herself to care – not just about Nate, but she’d made herself vulnerable to this man too. Now _he_ was going to leave her, and nothing was ever going to be okay again.

Eliot caught her hands before she could jerk away, pulling her as close to him as he dared. “Sophie, I don’t have a choice. The roses are a threat. The photos, the sketches – all threats if I don’t at least see what Damien wants me to see.”

She laughed bitterly. “He wants _you_ , Eliot. Don’t you think I see that? You’re leaving us to go back into his service, back to being his pet enforcer. You can’t do it! You’re not that man anymore.”

“I can’t let this lie,” he said. “Too much is at stake.” He fell silent for a moment, studying her as if he was trying to memorize everything about her. _Like he’s never going to see me again._ “I do love you,” he said, his eyes so full of emotion Sophie felt like she was drowning. “God forgive me I know I’m not supposed to…”

She shook her head, tears blurring her vision. “Don’t say that. If you love me, don’t leave. Don’t go with him.” She clutched at his shoulders. “Eliot please – nothing he’s holding is worth you doing this.”

Impossibly, he was suddenly smiling at her, his expression almost peaceful. “If I’m right it is,” he said, combing his fingers through her hair. “If I’m wrong, I’ll come back to you and we’ll figure all this out – I swear.” He swallowed. “If I’m right, you’ll understand why I did this soon enough.”  
****************  
A limo took them to Moreau’s waiting jet. Damien made a few valiant attempts at casual conversation, and in the privacy of his own head Eliot had to admit that he was ridiculously charming about it. One of the main reasons for the man’s repeated and enduring successes was that it was almost impossible to hate him.

Another was his iron will – when Moreau set his mind to something, it was extremely rare for him to be persuaded to change his position. Eliot had managed it a few times when he was Damien’s favorite, but now the one thing he _was_ interested in talking about was the subject Moreau declared absolutely off limits. “You will see everything for yourself soon enough,” he said, sipping chilled champagne. “If you still have questions after that, I promise you I will answer them.”

Three hours into the flight, he was finally able to get Moreau to admit that the entire operation, from his first contact with Maggie Collins to the present, had been designed to force Eliot back into his service. “We had an arrangement,” Eliot reminded him, taking a pull off the beer Damien had provided for him. “I kept my word.”

“I have thought about punishing you properly over the years,” Damien admitted. “But times have changed. Circumstances have changed. Things don’t work as smoothly without you by my side.”

Eliot smiled bitterly. “What about my…conscience? It’s still going to be an issue.”

“No it’s not,” Moreau countered. “You’re a professional. You know what’s at stake if you defy me again.”

He was speaking as if the deal was a foregone conclusion. _He’s not far off,_ Eliot was forced to admit. Even if Moreau didn’t really have anything of value to trade for Eliot’s service, he still had Maggie and Sophie’s continued well-being as hostages to Eliot’s obedience. As leashes went, it was a good one – tight and efficient.

Eliot couldn’t shake the feeling that there _was_ something else in play, however. Damien had never lied to him – it was a hallmark of their relationship. He had said that he had something to trade. _“It could be the most priceless thing anyone would ever offer you.”_ The conclusions Eliot’s mind was drawing were more than enough to convince him to see this through.

He finally stopped puzzling things over when they started their descent. As Moreau had said, he would know the whole story in very short order.  
****************  
The villa post-dated him – Eliot had never seen the property before. He was bitterly amused to see that whoever Moreau’s lieutenant was these days, he was keeping to the security measures Eliot had established years ago. “Who’s top dog in the pack these days?” he asked as he followed Damien through the house.

“You will be once our business is concluded,” Moreau said. “Right now though, it’s Chapman. You remember him, right?”

Eliot couldn’t suppress his smirk. He knew Chapman – Myles had been the one who’d introduced him to Damien years back. _He won’t like stepping down._ Chapman was loyal though – he’d do what Damien ordered, no matter how it went against the grain.

Eyes followed them everywhere – Eliot had no doubt the speculation would be running rampant once he and Moreau were out of earshot. He was the one who’d left, the one who’d defied Damien and lived. He had no doubt that every single gun on duty had heard the story. _You can’t be happy that it’s still circulating, though,_ he thought, watching Damien’s back.

Two guards were on the door leading to the cellar. Eliot felt his adrenaline levels starting to rise. Whatever it was Moreau had to trade, it was behind this door.

Damien held up a hand. “You must understand that I am completely serious here. If you try to double cross me, neither of you will leave these grounds alive.” He was suddenly every inch the man who was feared and respected around the world. “The white roses are also still very much in play. I don’t believe he will thank you for allowing harm to come to either Maggie or Miss Devereaux.”

 _He._ Eliot swallowed hard. He was right. Moreau was holding the only card that mattered. “You know what this means to me, Damien,” he said finally. “I’m not going to risk screwing it up.”

Moreau studied him for a long moment – then, satisfied, he started down the stairs into the basement. Eliot followed him to a padlocked door in the far wall of the large, dimly lit space watched by two more guards with high-powered rifles. At their approach, one of the men unlocked the door and held it open. Damien stepped aside then, and gestured for Eliot to enter. “See for yourself how I am a man of my word.”

Eliot’s heart was pounding so loud as he stepped forward that it nearly drowned out his awareness of anything else. There was a bed in the small room, and the type of medical monitoring equipment that told him at a glance the patient was very sick indeed.

Overcome, he went to his knees, reaching out to brush his fingers against too-pale skin stained with long illness and suffering. _How..?_ It was too incredible to process at a glance – too many impossible moves. They’d talked away many hours about Nate being broken. Sam’s death had broken him. The loss of respectability had broken him. The drinking had broken him.

At the man’s bedside now, taking in the reality of his fallen friend, Eliot knew it had all been a sick joke. They’d been so stupid. _This_ was broken, the way Damien Moreau broke a man. If they were patient and very, very careful, proper treatment of his mind and body might restore Nathan Ford in time to a shadow of the man he’d been.

“He has taken every bit of punishment I’d once intended for you.” Eliot couldn’t help his body’s flinch at the sound of Damien’s voice, the feel of the man’s hand gripping his shoulder. This was a private moment Moreau was intruding on – something Eliot knew Nate wouldn’t want witnessed. _You’re giving up the right to those, though, aren’t you?_ It was the price of Nate’s freedom – his life away from here – and Eliot was going to pay it gladly. “He was quite reasonable about it too, once I explained our history to him.”

Startled, Eliot looked up at the man standing over him. “You told him?” he asked.

Moreau’s smile was almost indulgent. “It seemed to bring him some peace, knowing that the torture had a purpose. At times he seemed to almost welcome the pain, believing he was saving you somehow.”

 _You stupid son-of-a-bitch,_ Eliot thought, looking back at the unconscious man in the bed. “He goes free,” he said. “You give him his life back.” It would be a long time before Nate would be well enough to resume the life he’d been torn away from, but surrounded by people who loved him at least he’d have a chance.

“He was on his way to prison when I took him,” Damien said. “I presume that isn’t the life you want him restored to?”

Eliot pushed smoothly to his feet, pivoting to face off with Moreau. “You know it’s not,” he said, barely holding his temper in check now. For Nate he could be strong. For Nate, he could demand whatever was necessary. “You’ll pull whatever strings you have at your disposal to make the charges and the evidence against him disappear. He recovers a free man, surrounded by his family.”

Damien’s dark eyes were devoid of emotion. “And what do I get in return for this incredible show of generosity?”

Eliot didn’t allow himself to flinch away from the question. “You get me. My sworn loyalty – no questions, no challenges, no exceptions. I reenter your service with the understanding that I am yours to do with as you will.”

“And that if you break your word, vengeance will fall not on you, but on those you love best.” Moreau’s eyes ticked down to rest briefly on Nate before returning to Eliot. “I already know the others are not nearly as strong-willed as this one is.”

“I swear I won’t give you reason to find out,” Eliot said, feeling all the old walls start to rise into place. _You’re not that man anymore,_ Sophie had said.

He was about to find out how wrong she was.  
*****************  
Nate was gone from Moreau’s custody within the day, flown to Boston on the same jet that had brought Eliot to his side. Eliot didn’t ask permission to see him again, and Moreau didn’t offer. Eliot also didn’t bother trying to follow up and verify that Nate had arrived safely. One thing he knew he could count on was that Damien Moreau was a man of his word. He could be a malicious, sadistic bastard when the mood struck him, but he never lied, and he never went back on an agreement.

As long as the price was Nate’s life and his freedom, Eliot had no problem granting the same level of courtesy. So in the days that followed Nate’s departure, he was re-armed in Damien’s service – fitted with the same custom leather shoulder holster every one of Moreau’s men wore. He was allowed to offer commentary on the weapons he carried, and Damien still listened to his opinions, but from that day forward Eliot had a minimum of two guns on him at all times – non-negotiable.

The first justice he dispensed in Moreau’s name was a bullet fired at close range into the head of a Saudi oil man. He did the job quickly and neatly – without commentary or remorse – and went on to his next assignment. Eventually Eliot knew he would be asked to do something that tested his ethical limits to their breaking point, but until that day arrived he took each job as it came.

Occasionally he would hear Sophie’s voice in his head, urging him to stop, pleading with him to remember that he’d changed, that he wasn’t that man anymore. It was easy to push that memory aside, however, because the truth was that he _was_ that man. He would never be anything else – not anymore.

Bodies continued to fall, while Eliot’s status and reputation rose with every kill and the passage of time ceased to have any meaning. Awareness of time brought with it the temptation to think of Nate and how his recovery might be progressing. Thoughts of Nate invariably led to thoughts of Sophie and wondering if the two of them were together again without him around to confuse the issue. It was all too painful.

Instead of thinking on what he’d lost, Eliot spent his off hours with Moreau’s other men – doing what he had to in order to fit in with the group. He never fully joined in with their off-hours amusements, having lost the taste for such things, but the days when he could spend his free time closeted with Damien were obviously in the past.

He was dimly aware that a year had come and gone since he’d returned to Damien’s service, when Moreau sent him to meet with an arms dealer in Southern England. This job was different, a possible sign of Damien’s growing confidence in him. He wasn’t being dispatched to kill anyone or dispense any sort of a warning. This time, all he had to do was meet with the man and confirm that security on the warehouse where they would be doing most of their business was acceptable.

Eliot was feeling almost good about the assignment until he walked in the door to find the place empty and echoing.

Immediately on guard, he drew his weapons and thumbed off the safeties – scanning the area for the expected ambush. You didn’t survive long in Moreau’s operation without developing a healthy paranoia, and this was Eliot’s second go-round in this particular nightmare. _This was his plan all along._ It was the only conclusion that made any sense. For all his talk about having punished Nate in Eliot’s stead, Moreau wasn’t a man that could let defiance like Eliot’s go unanswered. That wasn’t the way this world worked.

He’d been an idiot to think otherwise.

Eliot swept the interior of the warehouse looking for Damien’s assasins, but it wasn’t until he returned to the main floor that he heard the sharp, rhythmic click of something striking the concrete slab. _A cane?_ he thought, whirling towards the sound when he was certain he had the location right.

The tangle of curls was thinner than it should have been – the dark hair shot through with more liberal streaks of grey. His jaw was clean shaven, but Eliot could tell at a glance that he’d lost too much weight. He leaned on a cane in such a way that could have been affectation to somebody who didn’t know him as well as Eliot did.

Even the eyes – those impossible eyes that saw everything and nothing all at once – his eyes carried the shadow of old pain, although they were somewhat softened by the fact that he was obviously happy to see Eliot.

Stunned, Eliot lowered his weapons to his side. “I’m hallucinating,” he said hoarsely, blinking away tears. “I have to be.”

“You’re not,” Nate countered. “I set the meeting. I would have come sooner, but…” Almost as if to punctuate the truth of his condition, a wet, wracking cough shook his body, sounding like it was ripping bloody furrows deep inside his chest. Eliot moved forward immediately, putting his arms around the mastermind and supporting him until the fit passed.

Nodding his thanks, Nate straightened – putting most of his weight on the cane again. “I’m not going to be so noble as to say you shouldn’t have done this,” he said. “You saved my life, and I’m grateful. But enough is enough, Eliot. I’ve spoken to Moreau and we’ve agreed to terms that allow me to buy your way clear of your debt to him.”

Eliot blinked, momentarily unable to process what Nate had said. It didn’t make any sense; he couldn’t make it fit in his new understanding of reality. “He wouldn’t. He made it clear…”

“Even though I’m not at my best,” Nate said, a small, soft smile curving the corners of his mouth, “I can be very persuasive when I want to be. Put the guns down, Eliot – I’m taking you home.”


End file.
